His best and worst day
by BucketsOfCrazyLove
Summary: England hates France. And France hates England. They think they know everything about the other. Well, it turns out they don't. FrUK. Lemon. In Hurt/Comfort, because I didn't know in what ctegory to put it in. It's more comfort than hurt. Oh, and it gets a warning because of the smuttness, drunk Iggie, and the mere existence of France in there.


Iggy's P.O.V

England's best and worst day ever began like this: "Fuck off, you insolent bloody frog!"

And it went on a little bit like this: "Why, Angleterre, you don't like my company? But of course, since you like being around your eyebrows and that rotten hag you call a queen _that _much, why would you like my absolutely charming self? You're used to ugly!"

And England stormed out of the World Conference room, and went immediately home where he decided it was tea time.

But halfway through putting water in the kettle, he broke down. He placed the kettle on the counter, and slid to the floor, covering his face with his shaking hands. His eyes filled with unshed tears and he was shivering uncontrollably. And he couldn't figure out why. Never again had he reacted like that to France's words and insults. Never again had he felt like melting to a steaming pile of sobbing goo after that frog had opened that sodden mouth of his. Never again had he—

But those were lies. Every time France said something about his…special facial characteristic he wanted to have a melt down and cry. This time was the only one that he had actually reached so close to actually doing it. He hated that Frenchman. Hated, hated, hated, hated him! He loathed that smug, wine loving, perverted, imbecilic, beautiful—

What?! What?! What the hell was England thinking? Maybe he had the flu. Or something that he'd eaten had bothered his stomach. Because the only other logical explanation for that insulting little word was plain impossible.

"Bloody hell" groaned Arthur and forced himself to get up. He looked at the kettle resting in front of him. No, tea just wouldn't do now. He walked to the hall, put his coat on, and dragged himself to the nearest pub where he promptly got himself piss drunk with every last one alcoholic drink known to man.

He was downing his twelfth—or was that the thirteenth?—whiskey, when he spotted the reason of his drunken stupor chatting up some girl in the back of the pub. What the bloody fuck was he doing here? And the git seemed to be having fun too. And Arthur just couldn't have that now, could he?

Francis' P.O.V

He was in the middle of saying how beautiful Mary—or was it Marlene? Or Megan? He didn't remember—was, when he saw a particularly drunken and pissed Englishman staggering his way towards him. His fists were clenched, his eyes bloodshot and his hair a complete mess. Yet, France lost his words mid-sentence and his heart started thumping like it wanted out of his chest. "Mon Dieu, Angleterre" he breathed, as said nation pushed MaryMarleneMegan, growling "Fuck off" and sat on the chair the girl had previously occupied.

Francis' breath hitched at the Englishman's gruff accent. Angry emerald eyes met his own wide in surprise ones. "Fucking frog. Always trying to piss me off. Why do you do that?" Arthur's voice was raspy and slightly slurred and he was looking at Francis like he wanted to kill him. Or eat him. Dieu, make it be the second, pleaded France mentally.

France composed himself, and cleared his throat, flashing the Englishman a grin. "Because you're so fun to tease, Angleterre. The way your face becomes red, and you swear like a truck driver… Quelle amusement!"

Francis laughed lightly, seeping at his wine. England's jaw locked and he trembled in rage. Sacre Bleu, he'd never been this angry before. France's heart sank a little. What he'd said was partially the truth. The real reason as to why France said such things to Arthur was because the Englishman could never know of Francis's feelings for him. Never. He'd laugh and tease and ridicule the other nation. He'd crush the Frenchman's heart to little itty bitty pieces. And Francis liked it whole, like it was, thank you very much.

His eyes met Arthur's again. The green orbs were filled with a desperation so raw, so bare… France's breath stopped and his heart skipped a beat. Oh, Dieu, he was the cause of that. He had caused such misery. Oh, no, no, no.

The Englishman shook his head. "I hate you. I hate you so much that I love you" England whispered and got up and staggered away from Francis, who was glued to his chair. He wasn't moving. He wasn't even breathing. Arthur's words… They weren't true, right? They were just talk of a drunk. Right? Right.

But what if they weren't? What if the Briton had been actually telling la verite? France took a deep breath, downed the contents of his wine glass and tossing a twenty on the table, he hurried to the door, following the route of the other nation. "Dieu, aide moi, s'il te plait" he muttered, before stepping outside in the cold rain.

Iggy's P.O.V

"What are you looking at, you bloody gits!?" Arthur shouted at some people walking next to him and staring as they hurried away. "That's right, go away! Leave me alone! Be scared! Because I can hurt you! I'm the fucking Goddamn United Kingdom! Do you understand?!" England was standing in the middle of the street hollering at the sky. When no one answered him, he continued stumbling down the road. That was the way for his home, right? Or was it that way? The lone nation took some turns and span around some corners, managing to get completely lost.

Frowning, Arthur stopped a woman walking next to him. "How can I get home? Help me. I have to go home. France can't find me there." The woman pulled away, and ran down the street, shouting "Leave me alone, you madman!" The nation shouted back at her. "I'm not that scary! You're just chicken! Aarrgghh! Fine, go!" And he continued staggering towards paths unknown until an out of breath voice with an irritating French accent rang in the quiet alley.

"Angleterre! Would you just wait!?"

Arthur stumbled to a stop and span around, nearly falling on his face in the process. Bloody hell, he was unbalanced this evening. And anyway, what was that filthy frog doing here?

"What do you want? Bloody wanker." France walked over to him, panting, and shivering as the cold rain hit him. His clothes were soaked and his bottom lip trembled. "An-Angleterre" he breathed. What was wrong with him? Did he get the cold from the weather? Arthur sneered at the Frenchman. "What, are you cold, France? Well, good!" He was ready to take off again, when Francis caught his arm, and brought them close.

"What are you doing, you slimy fucking stupid frog? Unhand me right this instant!" he practically screamed. The French brought them chest to chest, and forcefully caught Arthur's chin in his hand. "Hush, Angleterre, hush" he whispered. Francis brought their foreheads together.

"I'm so sorry, Arthur. So sorry. I didn't know that—" England cut him off.

"What did you just calm me?" He wasn't sure what his reaction really was. He thought for a second that there was a possibility that he may be enraged. He then had the impression he was sad. But then France whispered "Arthur" and the Briton's eyes had been glued to the blue eyed nation's lips when the name left his mouth. And Arthur knew. He wasn't angry, he wasn't sad. He was turned on.

The Englishman smirked at Francis, before pushing their mouths together, in a hungry, desperate kiss.

Francis' P.O.V

"Arthur" Francis moaned in the Englishman's mouth. He pressed his whole body to England's, eliciting wanton groans from the green-eyed nation. Their lips pressed together, their tongues swirled and dipped around each other, and their teeth clacked. Never stopping the kiss, Francis pushed them to the nearest wall, pressing Arthur between his body and the cement.

He dipped his hands inside the Englishman's shirt, and grazed his chest and stomach, as the other nation's fingers tangled in his hair. The kiss was an assault to the senses. Francis tasted the whiskey in England's mouth. Smelled his sweet tea scent. Felt the silk that was his skin against the pads of his fingers and his palms. Heard the other nation's hard breaths through his nose. He opened his eyes to see Arthur's eyes shut, his eyelids fluttering.

He had been waiting so long for this. So tragically long. In fact he had waited so long that he had completely lost hope of it ever happening. But it was now. And it was so much more than he could have dreamed and fantasised of.

He used his forefinger to caress lines between Arthur's navel and the waistband of his trousers. The Briton moaned and started lazily unbuttoning Francis' silk shirt, pushing the wet material out of the way to reveal his skin to the cold rain and wind. But France didn't care about being cold anymore. No, all he could think of was _Arthur, Arthur, Arthur_ and _more, more, more._

That was when England passed out.

Iggy's P.O.V

Arthur groaned without opening his eyes. Bloody hell, his head hurt. He groaned once again, and covered his face with his palms. He didn't remember a single thing from last night, only that he had gotten really, really, _really_ drunk. He had some faint recollection of a hot mouth pressed against his and a French-accented voice calling him by his human name, but that must have been some sort of crazy drunken dream. Why else would he be dreaming of that frog?

England tried to understand his surroundings without opening his eyes. It never was a good idea to do so when he was hungover that bad. He was lying down on a bed, his bed presumably. It must have been really early still, because his alarm clock hadn't rang yet. He reached with his hand to find the bed-side table, but his arm collapsed halfway on his silk sheets–

Wait a second. He didn't possess any silk sheets. So this couldn't be his bed. So, where the hell was he? Arthur started hyperventilating. On whose bed had he landed last night? And what was he going to do? Okay, okay, he just had to figure out what to do without panicking. And when he'd thought nothing could ever get worse, Murphy's law kicked in, and it just did.

"Oh, you're awake! C' est bien. Trés bien. Here, drink this." England's eyes flew open and the first thing he saw was a pair of big blue eyes, filled with concern. The Englishman screamed and pulled back, only to hit his head on the wall, worsening further his headache. "Ow! Fucking hell!" he grunted and clutched at the back of his throbbing head.

"Dieu, Angleterre, be careful, already! Drink this, it'll help." The Frenchman held up a cup of coffee, judging from the smell. England looked suspiciously at the mug. Francis rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Relax, Angleterre. It's not poisoned. Here." France took a sip from the cup and gave it to the reluctant Englishman.

Arthur took the offered coffee and drank at it hesitantly. "Ugh! Are you trying to kill me, you frog?! That's disgusting!" The Frenchman rolled his eyes, tsking.

"Mais, of course it is disgusting, Angleterre. It is plain black coffee. Drink it anyway" said Francis in a molasses sweet voice, like he was speaking to a child.

"Do you think I'm five years old, for heaven's sake!? I know!"

"Je ne sais pas, Angleterre, are you?" His tone was light and teasing, but England still fumed inside. He narrowed his eyes, lowering those irritatingly big eyebrows of his, and drank the appalling black liquid.

"Do you mind lowering the lights? I'm nearly bloody blinded over here" grumbled Arthur after handing the now empty mug back at the ever randy Frenchman.

Francis chuckled lightly, placing the cup on the table, turning off the lights and turning on a night light. "Ohhonhonhon, Angleterre, what an ambience romantique! C'est un réve come to life, je pense!"

Arthur grumbled "Sorry, I don't speak that perverted language of yours. You'll have to cease the amphibian-talk so we can communicate", although he had understood perfectly what the Frenchman had said, in that low bedroom voice of his that could make nuns want to fornicate naked. And just what the hell was he thinking? Preposterous! The hangover had affected him worse than he'd thought.

And on that note a new wave of pain crashed through his brain. He groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just what the bloody hell had I been doing last night? And how the fuck did I end up here?" That made a frown appear between France's blond eyebrows and unexpected look of hurt crossed his eyes, but it was instantly gone. It was probably never there in the first place, Arthur thought. He must have been imagining things.

"Don't you remember?" At England's blank look, Francis eyes filled with despair. "Oh, Dieu, you don't remember. But- but how could you not? How could you not remember when I can't get those damn five minutes out of my head?"

Arthur's eyes became wide. "What five minutes?! What the hell's that supposed to mean?! What did we do in five minutes? What the fuck did I say this time?! Oh, bloody hell, I said it, didn't I? And I had sworn to myself I would never utter those words! God fucking dammit!" He was ranting and shouting, and the words didn't even make sense to him, but weirdly Francis seemed to understand.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and cocked his head to the side. "But why? Those were the most beautiful words I've ever heard, if we're talking about the same thing, Arthur." At the sound of his human name uttered by that particular nation, memories of last night slammed into England's head. _I hate you so much that I love you._ _Lips against his own. The sound of a moaned 'Arthur'.__ Smooth palms against his chest. The sound of his heartbeat filling his ears._

"Bloody hell" he breathed.

Francis' P.O.V

"Ah, so you remembered" said France, trying to sound nonchalant, when he was mentally stressing like crazy. But then again there was no reason to stress about England's reaction. He'd be mad, he'd hurl obscenities at him, and storm out of the room. There was an about 99,9 % possibility of that happening. That's why Francis found it very bizarre that the other nation just sat there staring at him and said "Bloody hell" again in the slightest of tones.

"It is truly okay, Arthur. I understand" the Frenchman said disappointedly, and started getting up from the bed. No, he had been wrong. It wouldn't actually happen. He'd just have to go on with the mere memory of a kiss, nothing more. What England had said was just the words of a barely lucid drunk. They weren't truthful and hey meant nothing. It was alright. France was the country of love. He could handle. Probably.

He got up, and turned away from Arthur. He didn't have the heart to face him right then. He had been ready to leave the room, when a whispered "No, wait" stopped him. He turned and looked questioningly at the green-eyed nation, who was propped up against his headboard. Even with those dark circles under his eyes, he looked sinfully good on Francis' bed.

"Don't... wait... I... God, this is difficult. Fuck it. Don't fucking go. Okay, you bloody lecherous frog? What I said at the pub? Remember? I meant it. So wipe that lost puppy look off your bloody face, you git." Even though the words were spoken not in the most friendly of tones, they still made France's heart flutter. He had founded strange that England made him feel like that even though his experience with romantic matters was beyond vast. Okay, if he had to be truthful, his romantic experience surpassed even that of a sex god. But then again, he _was _a sex god. But back to the matter at hand.

He was in love with Arthur. He had been for a long time. But it was just such fun to tease the Englishman that he had ended up hiding his feelings behind mockery. Which most of the time was the truth. England's cooking did suck, and that queen of his was really unappealing. The only truly scornful comments though had been the ones about the nation's eyebrows. And he tried not to bring them up a lot, but it just came to him on the spur of the moment and he couldn't help himself.

He sat back down on the bed. "Je te veux, Arthur. I want you. And it's the truth." The Briton stuttered a "Wh-Wha-at?" before Francis pushed their mouths together, and kissed him long and hard, and it felt so good... So good it should have been illegal. Because France felt like he had just gotten addicted to Artur's mouth, and drugs like that shouldn't be left to go around in public.

Francis pulled the other nation down so his head rested on the pillows, as the Frenchman crawled up his body and straddled him, rubbing their bodies together. Arthur moaned and arched his back and his erection rubbed against France's.

"Say it too, Arthur. Mon nom. Say it." The Englishman moaned and Francis swallowed the sound hungrily.

"But it means nothing. Nothing at all." He said that hurriedly, in a small panicked voice, like he wanted to assure himself. Francis nodded, even though it meant the world to him. Even though he wanted it to mean the world to Arthur too. But he was sure that would never happen. And the heartbreak would come afterwards. Still he didn't care. This once was worth all the broken hearts in the world.

"Rien, Arthur. It means nothing" he whispered huskily in the other nation's ear and started pressing hot open-mouthed kisses to the Englishman's neck, which arched almost instantly, so it granted Francis better access. He practically ripped the still half-wet shirt off England's torso, and licked a path to his chest, tasting his skin.

"F-Francis..." came a moan from underneath him, and the Frenchman's eyes snapped upwards. Arthur had his eyes closed, his lips parted, and his expression was one of complete abandon. Dieu...

Francis took off his shirt hastily, and surged up again, kissing England forcefully, and he responded in kind, pushing their bodies as close as they could get, grabbing fistfuls of France's hair.

The Frenchman's hand slithered down their stomachs and in ten seconds flat they were both buck-naked. He started kissing down England's chest to reach his straining cock, but Arthur's fingers in his hair stopped him.

"No. I can't wait. I–I want you inside me so much, Francis. Please..."

Iggie's P.O.V

The words that left his mouth were unbelievable. They were impossible. They were something Arthur would have never said. But that hardly mattered. What was important was that they _were. _And as Francis' beautiful surprised eyes met his, he new they were the complete and undeniable truth.

France reached inside a drawer and withdraw a bottle. Arthur settled back and closed his eyes as the Frenchman's nibble and experienced fingers rubbed around his entrance. And there went one finger. England squeezed his eyes shut at the weird feeling as a second and a third finger entered him. It was uncomfortable. It wasn't even close to what he'd imagined. Before yes, he'd imagined. In the shower, in his sleep, while he was drinking tea, while he was walking down the street, while he breathed... and this was just such an awkward feeling and he didn't feel at all what he –

And then his world exploded as France pushed at a spot inside him. He moaned and pushed down on Francis' fingers.

"Oh, God, Francis, Francis, Francis..." And he complied to the unsaid request and hit that spot again and again and again...

"Now, Francis. Please." He knew he didn't sound like himself at all, but he didn't care. Because then, as France laced their fingers together, and started pushing inside him, suddenly, even as much as he wanted to hide it, it meant something. It meant the world.

Their foreheads touched and Francis was now fully inside him and started rocking and moving against his body, finding that spot again almost instantly, and at the same time running his fingers over his erection and Arthur's world became a haze of unending pleasure and he wanted more. More, more, so much more. He wanted forever.

"Francis. Francis, I love you. I love you so much" he breathed against the blue-eyed nation's lips, and France whispered a breathless "Je t' aime, mon Arthur. Il y a long temps que je t'aime." And then he came, screaming England's human name over and over, pushing him , too, over the edge and into a spiraling orgasm.

Francis pulled out and collapsed next to Arthur, and put their still laced fingers over his pounding heart. "Don't leave me, mon Arthur." England shook his head. No, that would be impossible. Physically, mentally, in any way. And Arthur's screwed his eyes shut for a brief second before opening to meet the sparkling blue gaze of the Frenchman. He swallowed.

"J-Jamais" he stammered, the French word feeling unfamiliar in his mouth, but it was worth it. Francis sprang up from his lying position and crushed their mouths together, mumbling "Arthur"s and "je t'aime"s all the while.

And Arthur's day was then officially the best he'd ever had in his long life.


End file.
